Arbeit Macht Frei
by Wayward Dust
Summary: It's been over a century since the Nazi victory over Europe. English conman Neal Caffery faces harsh punishment for his crimes. S.S. Officer Peter Burke isn't what he seems. AU Fusion with the novel The Children's War by JN Stroyar.


Authors Note: This was my entry for the 2014 White Collar Big Bang on Livejournal. There are a lot of wonderful fics with wonderful art on that community. If you haven't gone and read them all, I highly suggest you do. This story is a fusion between White Collar Characters and the world created by J.N. Stroyar in her book The Children's War. If the premise of this fic interests you, I cannot suggest enough that you go read it. It's available on Amazon in print and on Kindle.

ETA: Thanks to the reviewers who told me my formatting was screwed up! This is why you shouldn't upload things when you're awake at 5 in the morning with insomnia.

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><p>Peter pulled his Volkswagon Jetta through the security gate and suppressed his distaste for the looming monster that was the Calais Reeducation Center. The stink of human filth emanated from the overburdened sewers of the burgeoning military complex, a miasma Peter had grown to associate with human misery. Peter had been to reeducation centers before, he'd even visited the Calais facility a few months after it had been built, and he knew what happened behind the insipid concrete walls. It was meant to be new and state of the art where the more humane rules of prisoner care could be followed. Peter knew that lasted only as long as the final government funded inspection before the interrogators and re-educators reverted to what they knew best.<p>

Peter entered the building through large automatic steel doors. Inside the lobby was an information desk with an anemic looking potted fern perched on the edge of the laminated particle board. From there, he was led by the secretary, a petite, bleached blond, down a poorly lit hallway to a small office where he was greeted by an officer in full military uniform. Vibrant red embroidered swastikas stood out brightly against the black fabric and the gloomy atmosphere in room and the harsh florescent lights reflected off the medals pinned across his chest. Another officer sat behind a large wooden desk, and afforded Peter only a quick glance from filling in blanks in a long series of forms.

"I find this very uncomfortable, Herr - I'm sorry, BURKE, was it?" he pronounced the name as if he were tasting something acidic.

"Yes, Burke. Agent Burke, actually," he replied, speaking as if the other man's attempt to insult him had gone entirely over his head. "I do realize this is highly unusual, but I'm acting under orders."

All Germans seemed to take being under orders as if all Ubermensch were physically compelled to kiss ass. Peter couldn't remember how many times he'd gotten away with something simply by stating he was under orders.

The officer made a face, but beckoned him to take a seat while they waited. A few long, silent moments later, a guard knocked on the door and deposited a human who might have been able to pass as Neal Caffrey under water on a dark day.

His dark hair was short - shorter than Peter had expected given the amount of time it'd had to regrow. His clothes were worn nearly through, the dirty blue-gray color almost completely faded away on his knees and elbows. The patches looked new enough, a white strip of cloth on which an identification number had been printed, the cross of Saint George to identify Neal as English, a black stripe with a green triangle to show he was a criminal, and finally a red strip of cloth with a yellow inset that labeled him as Zwangzarbeiter - forced labor. Untermencsh, in other words, subhuman.

"We did what we could with him given the time we had to work," said the officer, running a disapproving eye over Neal. "But I feel I must warn you, although we accelerated the program, I do not think he's ready."

Peter took a moment to look at Neal's thin frame and the faded but stark bruises on his neck, face, and hands. The way Neal kept his eyes trained to the floor.

"I think you've done enough," Peter said.

The man behind the desk spoke, telling Peter to sign several blanks on the form. Once finished and out of the office, Peter led the way through the halls and Neal followed behind him, silent as a ghost. As they walked through the parking lot, Peter turned to Neal to speak and was suddenly struck by how small the man looked against the background of the massive military complex behind him. The enormous red flags twitched limply in the sea breeze, swastikas bent and twisted in the folded cloth.

"You do what I told you?" Peter asked Neal.

Neal stared at him with a blank face that suggested he wasn't processing.

"Well, you must have, because here we are. Let me see them," He held out his hand, palm up in an expectant gesture.

Neal slowly extended his arm and turned it up to display the underside of his wrist. Peter grasped it, noting that he could wrap his fingers around it if he wanted to. He ran his thumb over the numbers tattooed in the soft skin. He let go and reached for the other arm, which Neal presented as if on autopilot. The metal manacle seemed overkill, Peter mused as he ran his thumb along the welded seam. He released him and Neal let his arms hang like he didn't know what to do with them.

"You know how this works?"

"I am property of the state, and as such I am valuable only so long as I work. All the laws and regulations pertaining to Untermensch pertain to me. As long as I obey each and every command put to me I will be permitted to live. If I cease to work or refuse a command or in any way threaten any citizen or structure of the state, my sentence will be carried out immediately." Neal said this automatically, as if he'd repeated it many times before.

It was one very long ferry ride over the Channel and then past the cliffs of Dover and two hours' drive through the English countryside before London began to emerge around them. The towns and cities along the way had been depressing in their disrepair and lack of color. Neal didn't think any place could ever be as downright sad as London. He considered himself a student of history, real History, not what the German schools force fed vulnerable minds. Just knowing what London had once been - or could have been - made him furious. Or, at least it had, before.

Now, he watched the tiny flats packed with bedraggled, tired people roll by the window and felt nothing. He was sure he should be glad to be away from the Reeducation Center, and the relief was slowly seeping into his chest, but for the most part he felt frozen, or perhaps stoned.

Peter had tried to start conversation, but Neal couldn't summon more than one or two word responses and eventually Peter had left him alone with his empty mind.

Neal rubbed the tattooed number on his wrist and tried not to think about what they meant for him. For the rest of his life. Or all the stupid ways he had brought his fate on himself. He was relatively sure that Peter wouldn't mistreat him and he would be well cared for, much like a precious and hard won piece of furniture. It could be worse. It could be so much worse.

He was still embarrassed by how he had behaved the last time he had seen Peter. He'd escaped the labor camp only a few days earlier, determined to find Kate and get both her and his life back, fugitive or the Reich or not. The bottle had brought all his hopes and dreams crashing down on him and in that moment he'd forgotten to run. The instinct that had kept him alive and nearly free for all his life had abandoned him in that one, integral instant and Peter had been right on his heels.

_Peter had entered the room quietly, as if trying not to spook him._

_"I see Kate moved out."_

_Neal only sighed. She was his entire reason for breathing and she was gone._

_"She leave you a message in that?" Peter asked._

_"The bottle is the message." Neal replied._

_"It's been a while."_

_"Yeah, few years, give or take."_

_"You carrying?"_

_"You know I don't like guns."_

_"They asked me, what makes a guy like you pull a boneheaded escape with four months to go?"_

_"Guess you figured it out."_

_"Kate sends you a Dear John letter and gets busy with her disappearing act. The trail ends here. But you already know that."_

_"Missed her by two days."_

_"Still. Only took you a month and a half to escape one of the most infamous prisons in the Reich. Damn impressive."_

_Neal managed a small laugh. Peter's radio buzzed, but Peter didn't touch it for a moment, looking torn. For a moment Neal didn't understand why and then reality __came crashing down. He wasn't just going to be sent back to the labor camp, they were to kill him. The panic must have been clear on his face, because Peter gave him a sympathetic look._

_"I have to call you in, Neal."_

_Neal swallowed reflexively and nodded and Peter muttered a few words into his radio that was drowned out by the buzzing in Neal's ears._

_"We surrounded?"_

_Peter nodded._

_"How many?"_

_Peter made a show of thinking. "Including the local police and my RHSA agents? All of them, I think."_

_Neal nodded._

_"What's the message?" Peter asked._

_"Good-bye," he said, setting down the bottle._

_"They're gonna sentence you to death for this, you know."_

_"I know." He could feel a tremor starting in his hands and he settled them firmly on his knees._

_Peter gave Neal another sympathetic look, but one that said that he was sorrier Neal was so damn stupid he'd gotten himself executed._

_"There is one way," Peter said. "But it won't be fun."_

_Neal glanced up at him sharply, questioningly, and Peter continued._

_"I can arrange for you to be reeducated. Convince the Administration that you'd be a good Zwangzarbeiter for us. An informant."_

_The breath left Neal. Reeducation or death? Just twenty minutes ago, he'd thought his only reason to live had left him. Still, it was never in Neal to just roll over, no matter how many times he may have wanted to._

_"Yes. Yes, please. I don't want to die." Neal would have begged, had Peter made him, but he didn't._

_"Okay. Okay." Peter seemed uneasy, but called something in over his radio, just as heavy, military footsteps were beginning to echo in the hallways._

_Neal got to his feet and stood by Peter, limply offering his wrists when the Administration officers burst through the door and handcuffed him._

_"Don't let them kill me," Neal pleaded, raw fear taking over his mind. "Please."_

_"Four months, Neal. I will come get you in four months. Just do what they tell you, everything they tell you. Don't get mouthy, don't fight. You'll be okay. Just four months." Peter promised, sounding close but Neal had clenched his eyes shut as he was manhandled and searched. His head swam as he was shoved through the small door of what was once his and Kate's flat, Peter's words repeating in a mantra in his head. Four months._

They stopped in front of the police station. Neal followed Peter out of the car, nervously offering up his hands when Peter pulled out handcuffs and fastened his wrists in front of him. The police station was an old brick building, Neal would have guessed it was constructed sometime in the twenties or thirties, before the war. The windows were stained with cigarette smoke, the door metal and discolored by weathering.

Peter greeted the man at the desk with a somewhat lazy "_Heil_", which was repeated by the officer with much more enthusiasm.

"I need him registered," Peter presented Neal as if he were mailing a package.

The officer looked surprised, eyes sweeping over the array of information presented on Neal's uniform.

"Of course, Mein Herr. I apologize, but it's been quite a long time since I've registered one of these. It may take some time." The officer said.

Minutes of shuffling through drawers and sorting papers passed slowly. They didn't have the updated forms, the old ones would do for now, come back in so many weeks and they'd submit the correct forms. Peter looked appropriately annoyed, mumbling about the inconvenience. The officer photocopied all the pages from Neal's docket of papers that included his work and residential information, all of the information regarding his legal status, and a photo that Neal had taken only a few hours earlier before he left the Reeducation Facility, but barely remembered. Neal cringed when he saw it. It did not present him as his usual charismatic self. He wondered if he still looked as dazed, bedraggled and stupid as he did in the picture.

The Burke's flat, located in one of the more well-to-do German neighborhoods of London, was putting Neal's mind in a state of constant cognitive dissonance. His eyes told him that he was safe, but his body held that he should run. Now. Get away while he still could and never get caught again. Neal was smart enough to know that wasn't likely. Even Mozzie didn't think he could remove Neal's tattoo. Sure, a lifetime of long sleeves wasn't the worse fate a man could face, but Neal's heart just couldn't take the strain now. Maybe never again.

Moz had contacted Neal only a few days after he'd been retrieved by Peter. Moz had been impressed by the two level flat, rare in London, and commented that Agent und Frau Trenchcoat were doing quite well. Neal had to agree. While he had conned and forged his way into some magnificent homes in the Reich Fatherland over the years, he'd been away from London for so long that he had stopped imagining places like this existed here.

He and Moz had spoken only briefly, Moz there under the guise of repairing some plumbing during the day. Neal, as Peter's zwangzarbeiter, was left at the home to take care of menial daily tasks while the Burkes were out. Elizabeth had been at the market and Peter at work. Moz had examined his tattoo and his manacle and declared the ink near impossible to remove completely. He could perhaps alter it with the right supplies to throw the authorities off, but Neal would probably have to remove an alarmingly large portion of skin if he ever wanted to be completely rid of it. The manacle was easily removed with a metal cutter, but Neal didn't find the idea of Mozzie in a back alley shop with second hand tools (incredibly sharp tools) just a centimetre from his arm all that appealing. Moz had left, promising Neal he would look into what he could do about the tattoo and that he'd contact him again soon.

Frau Burke had been a surprise. She was beautiful and astonishingly kind. After the past four years, the past four months most especially, she'd been as shocking as seeing a unicorn. He couldn't remember the last time someone had spoken to him so softly, treated him so humanely. She'd ushered him into her home and swept him upstairs to their washroom, given him soap, shampoo, and a fresh, comfortable set of clothes. Once he'd bathed, alone and slowly, something he'd dreamed of almost nightly for years, she'd fed him a bowl of stew and shown him to a bed in their guest room.

Nothing about the past four months could have led him to anticipate any of this. He was aware that Agent Burke was saving him from certain death, but the torture and brainwashing had made that hard to remember. He'd expected, well, he wasn't sure what he'd expected, but this wasn't it.

That same evening that Mozzie had visited, Agent Burke sat Neal down at their kitchen table and slid a file across its glossy wooden surface, his face carefully blank. Neal took the file gingerly, unsure. As he read, Neal could feel his heart begin to pound and pulsate in his ears. This couldn't be right. Peter Burke could not be telling him what he thought he was telling him.

"That's a file on a man I'm calling The Dutchman," Peter said, as if he weren't flipping Neal's entire perception of the man on its head. "He's been outing the Undergrounds operatives for quick paydays. We think he must have had some association at some point, but it must have been a while ago. He uses fake aliases and I haven't been able to get a bead on him. I think you could help me. What do you say?"

Neal could feel his mouth opening and closing like he was some large fish out of water.

"You mean to tell me you're UNDERGROUND? How? Why? I mean," Neal struggled to stimulate his brain into comprehension.

A part of Neal, beaten into him over a lifetime of betrayal, told him this was a trick. A test. Peter was going to get Neal to say yes, then decide that Neal wasn't trained well enough to live in his home. He was either going to be sent back to the Reeducation Center or killed. This part of him was strong now, stronger than it had ever been in his life.

"I can't," Neal said, watching Peter's face carefully for a clue that he was pleasing him, that he'd be allowed to stay in this odd German haven from Hell. "Sorry."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Peter said.

His face remained unchanged, impassive, as if they were discussing the weather.

"I'll just leave the file with you anyway. Read it over, maybe you'll change your mind." Peter left Neal at the table then, grabbing himself a beer and settling before the television to watch the evening news.

Two days later and Neal had experienced the novelty of a week of full meals three times a day, plus he'd been encouraged to raid the refrigerator whenever he pleased. He could feel himself slowly coming back to life, the rusty gears in his mind beginning to creak and moan. Frau Burke had given him both reading and art supplies. She'd presented them by lying it all out on his bed in an overlarge gift basket, as if gifting him late birthday presents rather than the only personal possessions he now owned.

He hadn't painted yet, but he was beginning to think about it. He'd picked the sketch book up the moment it caught his eye, broke out the charcoal pencils, and locked his bedroom door for privacy. But once he'd sat down and opened the book, his pencil poised over the paper, he'd found himself with a distinct lack of inspiration. He'd doodled, miscellaneous body parts, a tree or shrub, the Burkes dog, then sat it down feeling disappointed. There had been a time when he could spend hours sketching detailed drawings. Now, everything he'd once sketched was gone and he didn't need the reminder.

Now he was perched in the stairway, sketchbook on his knees and doodling what he could remember of the Our Lady of Sorrows face. It was a risk, the first he'd taken since arriving at the Burkes. The icon was considered Polish paraphernalia, contraband. Illegal. Neal felt his heart begin to speed and his hands sweat. He placed his pencil in the center of the sketchbook and closed it, running his hands over his face and through his hair. He was a god damned art forger, he'd painted a hundred banned paintings, sculpted almost as many long lost, completely illegal sculptures from the pages of equally illegal books and he'd done it with joy. He'd brought back dead culture. He'd thumbed his nose at the Master Race and their thrice damned Thousand Year Reich.

Look where it had gotten him.

Granted, he'd never been accused of any of these things, although he was beginning to suspect that Agent Burke and his wife knew, somehow. It would make sense for Agent Burke to know, if he were high ranking in the British Government in Exile, because Neal had done several commissions of lost British icons and master pieces for them. They'd been one of his best clients, actually. But if Peter Burke were both Underground and Government in Exile, then what the Hell was he doing here playing good little German soldier?

There was a knock at the door, followed by two rings of the doorbell, and Neal veritably jumped out of his skin. He slammed the sketchbook closed and pulled it to his chest. He stayed in his spot on the stairs though, curious, and watched as Frau Burke emerged from somewhere at the back of the flat to answer.

From his vantage point on the steps, all he could see at first was a dark colored, sensible looking three inch high heeled shoe attached to a rather shapely, dark skinned leg. He frowned and craned his head around the wall, trying to see if the dim lights were playing tricks with the shades of the room. No, there was really a tall ethnic woman standing in the small foyer.

"Diana! It's been too long," Frau Burke remarked, leaning in and giving the other taller woman a quick hug.

"I know, but things have been really hectic lately. I've had jobs coming out my ears."

"Yes, Peter told me he's been keeping you busy. How's Christie?"

"Oh, she's alright. She misses Leeds. She still had family there. She understands why we have to be here, but she doesn't like it."

Frau Burke made the appropriate noises of sympathy, stating that she understood how it felt to be away from family. The two women chatted amiably, drifting farther into the sitting room.

"How much longer will Peter be?" Diana asked, glancing around the flat as if she could find him underneath the furniture.

"Oh, he sent word that he'd be a little late. I should have told you, but I got caught up talking. He shouldn't be much longer now."

As if summoned, Peter thundered into the flat, door swinging open as if propelled by jet fuel.

"Sorry I'm late," Peter exclaimed, already shrugging off his coat and yanking at the knot on his tie. "The office was swamped today and I got stuck finishing a boat load of paper work."

Diana smiled at him and shook her head. "That's alright. Christie will probably be out late tonight, but I don't want to be here so long it looks suspicious."

Neal had retreated to the top of the stairs when Peter had burst in, positioning himself so that he could lean back against the hallway wall unseen, but still hear. He'd caught a glimpse of what this Diana woman was wearing and he thought it looked like the uniform of a domestic zwangzarbeitin. It wasn't uncommon for those wealthy enough to own one to loan them out to others in return for favors. It would be a good cover for a woman of color if she were an informant.

"Right. Straight to business then," Peter finished shedding all of his work trappings onto the side table in the entrance and took a seat in the armchair across from the couch. "Has Jones found anything?"

"No, he's dug into every bit of evidence left, but he's come up empty," Diana replied. "We were hoping there was some progress on your end."

"No, no, he hasn't agreed yet," Peter said this as if it were only a matter of time.

"You know Bancroft is going to be pissed. He doesn't like wasting resources."

"I think he'll come around. Try to remember that I was the agent who tracked him down and arrested him in the first place. These circumstances are unusual."

"I haven't forgotten, but some people have to think of the numbers or we'll all be sunk. We aren't as well funded as we used to be."

"Yeah, I know. Maybe you should contact June, just in case things don't go according to plan. My gut is telling me this is going to work out, but I like to be prepared."

"Sure thing, boss."

"So, are you and Jones working on anything else?"

"We are, but since most of our operatives are frozen until we plug our leak, I'm mostly working with other handlers right now. Jones is creating a backlog for after we've solved this."

"That'll be fun,"

"Oh, yeah," she laughed.

It was at this point that Neal retreated to the guest room. Who was June? What were they going to do with him if he didn't say yes? He was mostly convinced now that Burke truly was an Underground Op, but that didn't mean Neal wanted to be involved. He'd run up against trouble with the Underground almost as much as he had the government before his arrest, mostly for offering forged papers that weren't from the Underground itself. Apparently, they liked to have a corner on the market.

He'd always avoided joining any resistance for a reason. He resisted and rebelled in his own ways, but he'd never been very political. Of course he didn't like the government, but it had been over 70 years now and he was pretty convinced the Großdeutsches Reich was here to stay. It was better to just try to live under the radar than actively beat your head against a brick wall that was just as likely to shoot you as let you continue beating on it.

Still. Neal pulled the file from underneath the mattress where he'd stuffed it without giving it a second look. If it was to be his only choice, he might as well know what he was expected to do. If no one else could figure out who this Dutchman guy was, Neal wasn't sure why they thought he could.

Inside was official papers for work permits and various identifications. On closer inspection, they were clearly fake, although for the most part excellently done. Whatever mistakes were on the papers were done on purpose. Neal took a closer look at the official seals on the papers. He couldn't see any abnormalities there, but the local seal was off in it's ink colors. He moved on, read the report underneath detailing how each of these identities had belonged to an undercover operative. Neal wondered how the Underground had recovered these. Presumably, the owners of these false papers were long dead. Some had been confiscated over a year ago.

Farther into the file, there were pictures of forgeries not associated with the underground and without the purposeful errors that someone had painstakingly matched to the botched forgeries. As Neal looked over them, he could already see some didn't match. He put the ones he thought were mostly likely done by their suspect in one pile, eliminated the others in another. Maybe when he saw Mozzie next he would have him take a look.

Later that night, Neal was alone in the blessed quiet of the guest room, still trying to perfect his sketch when someone knocked lightly on the bedroom door. He stared at it for a moment, unsure if he was supposed to give permission to come inside or open it or if there was some rule about this he didn't know. When too long passed with an answer, the knock came again.

"Neal? Honey, I'd like to talk with you if you don't mind."

Neal twisted and shoved his sketchbook into the mattress he'd been sitting against and rose from the floor in one liquid movement, then mussed the blankets and flattened his pillow before answering the door.

"Frau Burke, I'm so sorry, I fell asleep and I barely heard you knock." he said, even as he got the door open.

She gave him a critical look, but swept into the room anyway, he proper German house dress swishing about her knees. Her bleached blond hair was still on top her head in a perfect bun, and Neal thought it was odd that she went to such an extreme. With the money Agent Burke made, surely she could afford to get a better dye job done, especially when she was so lucky to already have blue eyes and fair skin to match.

She turned to him and looked him up and down long enough for him that he started to feel anxious. She looked a bit pensive herself, wringing her hands as she was.

"Okay," she said in startling English. "I know you don't trust us yet and I understand why. I wanted to tell you that Peter is honestly trying to help you, but he needs you too. This case, it's gone on far too long and the Department is going to get suspicious. He's already had to arrest some of our own and he can't save everyone. It's taking it's toll on him."

She paused and bit her lip, collecting her words.

"I don't know why, but for some reason Peter believes that you can help him. Not just with this case, but he thinks you can be an asset to us. To the British Resistance. He respects and believes in you enough that he put everything we have at risk to keep you alive. I don't want to make you do anything you don't want, but I think you owe him at least this one case. Please."

Neal had been following along just fine, honestly beginning to believe she was sincere, until she dropped "you owe him". At the words he felt a warm burst of anger sweep over him. It was the first time he'd felt anything so strong in a long time.

"I don't owe him ANYTHING," he snapped.

She stepped back, shock tearing across her face before she schooled herself.

"I suppose I can understand why you would think that. But Peter wasn't the only agent with a bead on you. When he first arrested you, he had enough on you to have you sentenced to death then and there. He never presented any of it. I think he destroyed it. He's always thought you were smart.

"Do you remember," she smiled suddenly. "Do you remember the heist at the Fuhrermuseum?"

"I may have heard something about it," Neal said, straightening his spine.

"Peter thought that was the most hilarious thing he'd ever heard. I mean, really Neal? Fuhrer mustaches on ALL of the portraits? Peter was convinced they were all forgeries and not actually vandalized."

Neal couldn't stop the smirk that curled at his lips. But he shrugged anyway. "I wouldn't know. Didn't have anything to do with it."

"Just... Just think about all this, please. I understand this has all been hard for you, but it's been hard for us too. Peter has arrested friends and he can't even look into what happened to them. If this keeps going," she cut off shaking her head.

"I'm sorry," he said.

She looked disappointed.

"I will," he told her. "Think about it. But whatever Peter has ever done on my behalf, he's done as much to hurt me. I don't know exactly what you people are doing here or what you think you're accomplishing, but Peter Burke is an agent of the RHSA. He's _Gestapo_."

Frau Burke, to her credit, didn't flinch or deny. She looked thoughtful, nodding as if he were explaining a work complaint.

"This is true. But he does it for a purpose. We all do."

Neal had nothing to say after that. She left a few awkward moments later, telling him that breakfast would be ready by six the next morning if he wanted any.

June Ellington was born after the war had been, in her family's opinion, lost. Her parents had fled England, making it out by the skin of their teeth. Her mother had worked as a maid for a very well off, very generous family and they hadn't wanted to leave her behind with nothing. They'd left her mother, then pregnant with her first child, June's older sister, and her husband just enough money to get across the Atlantic and little else.

June hadn't grown up wealthy, but she and Byron had made a go at it. They'd come up like daisies. With their ill-gotten riches, they'd built a lovely home in Manhattan. As the children grew and she was neared her mid-thirties, June had suddenly felt it was time to visit her long lost relatives across the pond. It wasn't easy to travel over seas anymore, but June had been determined and just after her youngest child's sixth birthday, June was finally able to make the trip.

She hadn't been able to contact her mother's family, but she'd been able to find a cousin of her father's. Both her parents were long gone, and the connection in letters - telling her tales of her father as a boy - had felt good. What none of the letters had mentioned were the deplorable living conditions her cousin lived in. She'd been horrified and offered money.

During several subsequent visits, June looked for other relatives. She never found a single person from her mother's family. What she did find was records. June found it morbid that the Reich kept such detailed recordings of the atrocities they'd committed, were still committing, as if there was no one who could see the horror. Her mother's family had all been arrested, sent to labor and death camps at the wars end. As far as she could tell, none of them had survived.

One day, when her youngest was nearly finished with high school, she realized it had been months since her cousin's last letter. She called, but the number was no longer in service. She'd left immediately, but her father's last remaining relatives were long disappeared by the time she arrived, their flat already occupied with a new family.

It was then June decided that she would do something. Byron had supported her wholeheartedly has he always had, and together they began smuggling people instead of things.

Twenty-five years later, and her services were still in high demand. She outwardly held galas and fundraisers for human rights to support her cause, but that would never be enough. She would help people come to the North American Union until the day she died.

Today, June was back in London for personal reasons. Her husband had become quite attached to some of the little shops along (English street), more for the people than the things. Most people she knew found London depressing, but Byron had always seen the opportunity in everything. Along these streets, he had found a number of brilliant and wonderful human beings, all just waiting for fortune to look their way, and when June and Byron looked, fortune looked with them.

She ignored the alarmed looks she received. She was a rare sight indeed. A dark skinned woman dressed finely in American fashions walking about a German city was bound to attract attention. She was often stopped and asked for her papers, which she always had on her in duplicate. No sense in tempting fate.

She found the shop she'd been searching for and balanced the garment bags she held precariously in one arm as she opened the door. Her heart felt heavy at the thought of losing pieces of Byron, but deep down she knew they were just things and she needed to make room in her life to move on. She just hoped the suits would find a good home in someone who appreciated them.

The Burkes mostly left Neal alone. They left him with a relatively small list of chores to do around the house. At first, Neal had ignored them, but when Frau Burke had arrived home everyday and done the chores herself without comment, Neal had taken over. About two weeks into this routine, he was given a shopping list and instructed to buy the items listed sometime before he and Frau Burke needed to start dinner.

Neal had never been a nervous sort of person. Some might argue he had never been even a particularly cautious person. He wouldn't refute this, given his current life circumstances. However, leaving the flat for the first time had taken a toll on his anxieties he hadn't expected even as he stepped off the front stoop. It had be a very long time since he'd been in London, but he'd spent a good portion of his teenage and early adult life here. He knew where he was going and he knew the rules. Or he had known the rules.

Now the rules were very different. Neal habitually flouted the rules in his life, almost as if it were his purpose. That was before he could be immediately shot for almost nothing at all. That was before he had been arrested, beaten, tortured, starved. That was before, when he'd held the rights of a human being.

He spent the entirety of his shopping trip fretting that he'd be stopped by a patrol. This would inevitably happen. He was unusual. Most high ranking officials in England couldn't afford forced labor. Zwangzarbeiter were ubiquitous in large cities within the Fatherland, doing everything proper Germans couldn't lower themselves to do.

Neal stopped at the bakery and bought bread with their ration coupons. The Burkes had decent coupons for London, far better than Neal had received. While he stood at the counter, he found himself being stared at, pointed at, whispered about. Once, he would have reveled in so much attention. This was not for the right reasons. He felt his cheeks heat as embarrassment swept through him, starkly feeling the weight and rough texture of his ugly uniform that marked him so obviously. When the two loaves of bread were finally presented, he fled, still feeling the burn of their stares on his back.

Neal was surprised to find a thrift store on his list of shops to stop at. Listed with it were instructions for him to pick out sleepwear, socks, and undergarments. Of course, he was required to wear his uniform throughout the day, so that was the limit to his choices.

He mournfully picked through a rack of pants he wasn't allowed to wear. They were all horrible and ugly, but he'd give almost anything to be able to choose to wear them. He glanced back as the door opened and the bell above it jingled. The woman who entered was a surprise. She was an older, well dressed woman with dark skin, carrying an armload of garment bags. When she put the bags down on the counter, Neal drifted closer, curious.

"Old suits?" said the clerk.

The woman hummed her agreement.

"Those are fantastic," Neal said, momentarily forgetting that he was supposed to be seen and not heard. The clerk wrinkled her nose at him, but the woman turned and smiled at him, even after taking in his appearance.

"They belong to my late husband, Byron. He really had great taste in clothes."

"May I," Neal asked, reaching out to feel one of the suits. He held it up to look at the tag. "This is a Devore!"

"Yes, he won it from Sy himself," she smiled slyly.

"Won it?"

"He beat him at a back door draw."

"Your husband played poker with Sy Devore?"

"He certainly did. And so did I."

"No." Neal breathed, a full blown smile breaking across his face for the first time in what felt like years.

"Yes. The guys would even let me sit in once in a while on a hand. And I was good."

Neal laughed and grabbed one of the hats sitting with the suits and glared at the disgusted clerk defiantly as he tried it on.

"I'm glad to see you appreciate these. I was hoping someone would. I've got a whole closet full of them." Said the woman.

Neal's happiness dissolved into disappointment. He could have had these suits, in another life.

"I wish I could take care of them for you," he said, removing the hat from his head and placing it gently back where he'd taken it from.

She looked at him with sympathy, then abruptly removed the suits from the counter.

"I'm sorry, all this talk of Byron has made me nostalgic. I don't think I'll be selling these today."

The clerk shrugged disinterestedly.

"It was nice to meet you," she said to Neal. "And I hope we will again. I really must be going."

She left and Neal purchased his cheap socks and underwear, feeling as though he'd missed something.

Peter was home when Neal finally walked back in the front door of the flat, and all the relief he'd felt at avoiding the patrols evaporated. Peter was still dressed in his S.S. Uniform, sitting at the table looking over files.

Neal went about putting the groceries away. The hair on the back of his neck raised as he was shoving the meat into the tiny bin at the bottom of the small refrigerator. He looked behind him to see Peter watching him. When he was done, Peter gestured at him to come over.

Neal went to sit at the table but Peter stopped him.

"Stand in front of me," Peter ordered.

Neal did and Peter looked him up and down critically.

"You're looking much healthier," Peter mumbled.

Neal nodded. "I'm feeling much better, thank you."

"I didn't ask you to talk," Peter snapped.

Neal felt anger and embarrassment wash over him before it was replaced with ingrained fear. This man was allowed to speak to him like that. He was meant to be spoken to like that. He clenched his fist so Peter wouldn't see when he began to shake.

"Have you decided?" Peter asked.

Neal hesitated, then said. "My answer is still the same."

"That's too bad," Peter pulled out a cell phone, another rare luxury that was present in the Burke home, and dialed.

Neal began to sweat. "What are you doing?"

Peter's eyes flicked over him, then looked away. "I'm calling the Center. If you aren't going to work, what good are you?"

The phone rang, Neal could hear it.

"You're not serious?" Neal snapped.

Peter raised an eyebrow at him.

The phone rang again.

"Okay," Neal said, heart pounding. "I'll do whatever, just stop."

Peter hung up the phone and gently placed it on the table without looking at Neal. He pulled a file across the desk on top of the file he'd been reading when Neal had come in.

"I don't know what you expect me to do," Neal said, desperation coloring his tone. "I don't have my contacts or my equipment."

"Don't worry about that right now. We'll get you what you need. Go make dinner." Peter dismissed him.

For the first few nights, Neal was in what he later thought must have been some kind of shock. He hardly slept for the first night, too restless and too used to interrupted sleep and short nights. Too used to the threat of physical violence. Sometime during the next day, his mind seemed to finally catch up with his body and he crashed in a truly spectacular fashion, sleeping away the entire day and night. He'd slept a deep sleep of nothingness, no dreams, no tossing and turning, just darkness and when he'd finally woke mid-morning on his third day with the Burkes, he's felt blurry and confused, disbelieving he'd actually missed an entire 24 hours.

After that, he hadn't been as fortunate. He'd gone back to waking in starts and fits, jerking from sleep in a panic. He wasn't sure if he was waking from dreams or if his body was just accustomed to waking up that way. So, he'd sit silently in his room, looking out the window onto the narrow street and thinking.

He thought mostly about Kate. It had been years since he'd seen her and his memories of her were fading. He thought he remembered her hair, her smile, her beautiful blue eyes, the way it felt when he'd held her against his body after they'd made love. He thought he remembered.

He also thought about prison.

Neal was sentenced to twenty-five years. The crimes he was convicted of were as such: Improper Documentation, possession of illegal contraband, draft dodging. Had he been convicted of any of his real crimes, he'd surely have been sentenced to death. At the time, he was too stunned to wonder why he hadn't been charged with worse. He hadn't been able to piece together enough intelligent thought to know if he was relieved or not. He'd expected death. He'd told Kate not to wait for him.

In prison, Neal was still conflicted. Every day, he listened to the concussive discharge of shotguns during the daily executions of death row inmates, or whoever had been unlucky enough to prove themselves too much trouble. He listened and he wondered, what if?

He had never considered himself suicidal, even then. But he didn't see how spending twenty-five years of his life this way was living. Of course, he plotted and planned his escape. He clung with his whole soul to Kate's letters. The messages between the words gave him hope. She was waiting for him, and if she was waiting for him, she must have a plan.

He waited for her signal that it was time to go. And waited. And waited. Until her letters stopped coming. Had he missed it? Had he not understood when she had told him to run? Had something happened to her?

His plan was already in motion when he received her good bye letter. After all that time, he didn't understand why now? She'd kept him alive with nothing but written words for almost four years, and now she was abandoning him? It didn't make sense. Within the month, he was out and on his way back to London.

He could still feel the way his gut had clenched and his chest had ached when he'd found the bottle. She really had left him. He knew it wasn't fair to ask her to wait, but he was out now. She had to have know he'd get out, she'd left the bottle for him, but she hadn't had the fucking humanity to leave him decent papers? Had she wanted him killed?

Now, as Neal gazed out the window, fed, clean and rested more than he had been for the better part of half a decade, Neal realized that the bottle couldn't have been just a goodbye. Neal, sadly, could see Kate trying to leave him, but he couldn't see her trying to kill him. All she would have had to do if she'd had that intention was never send him letters in the first place. There was no way he would have lasted a full twenty-five years in Exeton.

He needed to see that wine bottle.

The morning light was just beginning to seep into the fog in the streets outside his window when he finally decided he'd get no more sleep. He dressed and went downstairs to make tea and wait for Peter.

Mozzie wasn't a revolutionary. He was a businessman. When Neal called him from a stolen phone in the middle of the night, almost pleading for his help finding a leak in the English Resistance, he knew that was about to change. Was he happy about that? Hell, no. But for Neal, he would do it.

He spent the rest of the night insuring that if he were caught in the affluent German residential district the Burkes lived in that he wouldn't be immediately shot. That meant new papers. Mozzie had learned early to always be prepared and he had different identities ferreted away all over the city. If he needed something a little different, he had the materials to make some last minute adjustments. By morning, he'd even taken the extra steps to make sure his papers looked used and worn.

Mozzie was deeply concerned about Neal. He'd looking into Kate like he'd been asked, and he hadn't found anything particularly inspiring. He'd liked Kate, but Neal had always been too obsessed with her from the moment he saw her. It wasn't love that Neal held for Kate, but infatuation. Mozzie liked to let things run its course most of the time, but his biggest regret was not stopping Neal before he got himself caught. And for what? To see Kate one last time before he was killed by the uncaring, bloodthirsty monster that was their government.

Moz knew what really went on and he'd known exactly what would happen to Neal and he hadn't done anything to help him. The pain he'd felt when he'd heard Neal's sentence had blindsided him. Neal was the best, possibly only, friend Mozzie had ever had. Now, he had a second chance and he wasn't going to stand by anymore.

He watched as Frau Trenchcoat exited the flat and took off down the street like the Gestapo was on her heels. A few minutes later, The Trenchcoat followed, tossing a briefcase into the back seat of the dark VW before taking off in the opposite direction of his wife. Mozzie collected himself and his supplies and went to the rescue.

Elizabeth left the house early in the morning, when the street lamps light were still reflecting off the infamous London fog and Peter was just rising for work. Neal had given her a bleary look of mild curiosity from where he'd been hunched over a cup of tea on the sofa, but had only grunted at her as she slipped out the door with a whispered "see you in the afternoon".

She pulled her overcoat closer to fend off the chill and set off down the road at a fast clip, her heels making a ruckus against the pavement. It didn't take long for her to be stopped by the first patrol, but they backed off quickly when they realized who exactly she was married to.

Her first order of business this morning was to take all of the messages she'd carefully coded for her husband over the past week and leave them at various drops. As a cultured Party member, she first visited a high end breakfast café, and with her trash, underneath her napkins, went months worth of research and spying, blood, sweat, tears, and lives. She carefully ignored the worker who quickly came to collect the garbage as she left.

After that, she met with her women's group, which involved sitting around talking to a bunch of vicious hyenas in dresses. It always astonished her how vindictive and petty these women could be. There was no solidarity between them. Elizabeth often found herself not only disgusted with the others by the time she left, but with herself as well. As the wife of the highest ranking official in the room, it was her job to keep them all in their place.

"Elisabeth, I hear you've acquired some help," said Gisela. She was a rotund woman who's natural hair color was so dark she'd bleached it nearly to death and her roots were still always visible through the halo of frizz. She was the engine behind the gossip in the group and rarely, if ever, missed anything. She would have made a fantastic spy.

"Yes, we did. It's strange suddenly having nothing to do about the house, but Peter insisted," She replied.

"Does this mean you'll be leaving us for Berlin soon?" asked Anna. She was more meek, only declared of the People recently when she'd become the second wife of a retired German naval officer. She was pretty enough and Elizabeth could see why she had used her looks to gain a better life. You work with what you have.

"No, nothing like that, not yet anyway. Peter enjoys the work he does now, I don't know if he'd enjoy a desk job yet." She said.

"You just wanted to show off," said Gisela. "There's no other reason for you to have a Zwangzarbeiter, you don't even have children."

It was a low blow. Elizabeth and Peter had wanted children and Gisela knew that. Gisela and her husband had come up through the ranks at the same as she and Peter had, and the woman had never let go of it once Peter had overcome her husband in rank. Gisela was a bit younger than Elizabeth and was now had three children. Elizabeth and Peter had tried to get a permit, but they'd always been blocked in their youth and once Peter had gotten his current position, they had decided children weren't an option. Secretly, Elizabeth and Peter would have too much to lose if he were to ever be found out for the double agent he was. Outwardly, they claimed infertility.

Elizabeth smiled anyway. "Peter just wanted to get me something nice for our anniversary. Enough about me, I want to hear what you've been up to. I hear your husband is in some trouble over a Pollock whore."

The next part of her day was Elizabeth's favorite. In an alley way, she made sure she was alone before she took off her fashionable dress, red like the flag with eagles sewn onto the shoulders, off to reveal a more homely one beneath it. She carefully folded it and placed it in a box along with her papers that identified her as Elisabeth Burke, and took out Elsa Varner. Elsa was a housewife who lived in Workers District 5, which was where she was heading now.

She deftly picked her way through trash, easier now that her heels had been replaced with sensible, worn in tennis shoes. As she walked, she let her hair down from here it had been braided and pinned to the back of her head, breathing a sigh of relief when the tightness in her scalp lessened. It took quite a long time to walk from the wealthy German district of Gisela's flat, but Elizabeth relished the exercise. There really was very little for her to do at home, with Neal taking over so much.

After nearly an hour, she arrived at a dilapidated, three story brick building nestled in the shadow of one of the large factories. She scouted the area like Peter had taught her, making sure she hadn't been followed, then entered through a stairwell that led into the basement. Waiting for her inside were four more women, all huddled in the back of the unlit room.

She approached one of the women, and the dark skin women smiled as she recognized her.

"Frau Burke, good afternoon. We've got a small shipment this morning." the women said.

"Afternoon, Yvonne," she said cheerfully. "Sounds like an easy day then."

Yvonne turned to the three women behind her. "This is the woman who's going to get you out of here."

Peter's day had been difficult. What he did was for a reason, many reasons, but days like this made those reasons seem paltry in comparison to what he had to do. Days like this made him regret ever accepting his assignment, would haunt him, made him want to quit. He trudged his way up the steps to his flat and opened the door quietly, hoping he'd be able to sneak by to the bedroom without El, Neal, or even Satchmo stopping him. Instead, he stopped dead in his tracks when he found Neal and El cheerfully chatting on the couch over some tea.

"Peter!" Neal crowed, sounding so like the Neal he'd arrested over four years ago, Peter blinked. "I know who the Dutchman is."

Peter had been after this guy for as long as Neal had been in prison, and a day after being handed the case, Neal cracks it. He doubted it.

Skeptically, Peter said "Enlighten me."

"Curtis Hagan," the name didn't ring a bell. "He's an art restorer. Or he was anyway. He got arrested for owning degenerate artworks. Somehow, he didn't serve any time, I figure he must have bought off the judge."

Neal rifled through the file and pulled out a full color photo copy of a forged Reich's war bond, circa 1932.

"This forgery is amazing. It wouldn't have been discovered, except that you had a look out for all war bonds made pre-1940. But look, he signed it."

"I think we might have noticed a signature tucked in the corner,"

"Show him," said Elizabeth, which was enough for Peter to move close enough to see.

"Look at the folds of her dress. The initials 'C. H.'," Neal looked mighty proud of himself.

"I don't know, seems like a stretch," Peter said.

"This bond is perfect, and it never would have been found if you weren't completely nuts. If I had done something this great, I would have signed it."

"You didn't sign any of your forgeries," Peter said, relishing the startled look on Neal's face.

"I wasn't convicted of bond forgery," Neal said.

"No, but I had them and I looked at them very, very closely before I had them burned," he replied.

Neal studied him intensely for a moment before a smile slowly curled at his lips.

"You should have looked at them under a polarized light,"

Peter snorted, amused. "Too late now."

"Hagan is still doing small restorations. He's working at a church. He should be there in the morning,"

"Good, we can go see before I hit the office,"

"We?"

"Yup. I purchased your contract with funds from the government for official use with the _Reichssicherheitshauptamt_. You need to start visibly helping me with cases."

"_What?" _Neal snarled, standing and taking a step away from the sofa he'd been sitting on. "I never agreed to work as Gestapo."

"Good thing you've got no choice then," Peter said dispassionately. "You asked me to save your life and I did. This is how I could do it. Besides, if you help me withthis case, you're already working as "Gestapo". Besides, I'm Amt V. We arrest criminals."

"Yeah, like me."

"Peter saves people like you, Neal," Elizabeth interjected. "He's in a tough position, but he does good work. He's saved the lives of countless people who've gone on to help other people."

"If he didn't arrest them, they wouldn't need saved."

"You know that's not true," she said. "And Peter does more than just save lives. We can't give you all the details now, Neal, but we need you to put your faith in us. I know after what you've been through it's probably hard to believe we aren't out to fool you or hurt you somehow, but we only want to help."

Neal scoffed and went to leave, but Peter stopped him with a hand on his shoulder before he reached the stairs.

"You can do a lot of good here. I know it sounds crazy, but by helping me, you'll be helping fight the system," Peter hoped Neal believed him. "Thank you for this information. I hope you'll go with me tomorrow."

Neal didn't say anything as he continued to his room.

The next morning, Neal was up and ready by the time Peter came down for breakfast.

The church was small and still had clear damage from the bombing nearly 80 years ago. From what Neal had seen of the work Hagan was doing before his arrest, it was a clear step down. It was in a bad neighborhood, not even in a German part of town, and there was trash all over the lawn. One of the windows were boarded up.

Peter forged ahead while Neal retained a safe distance behind. Neal couldn't help but flinch when Peter used his typical force when opening the door. Even when he wasn't in uniform, Neal couldn't imagine Peter as anything other than S.S., if only judging by his entrance skills.

The priest came to them to ask Peter if he could help him. The church was closed, but of course Peter wouldn't be stopped. Peter asked for Hagan and the priest helpfully pointed to the back of the church.

When Hagan saw Peter, the color drained from his face. He didn't put up much of a fight.

When they reached RSHA headquarters, Peter left Hagan with some his agents.

"Don't you want to question him?" Neal asked.

"I don't like to get my hands dirty," Peter replied.

Neal wasn't sure, at first, why Peter had even brought him. On the drive in, Peter had explained it would be better if no one knew Neal could even read. He wasn't allowed to touch the computers. He wasn't even allowed to sit. He shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot behind Peter's desk while Peter did paperwork for the first hour. Then Peter sent him for coffee.

The other agents surveyed Neal as if Peter had brought in a particularly disgusting exotic pet. They gave him wide berth, but every time Neal looked up, someone was watching him.

By the time Neal returned with the coffee, Peter had a full confession from Hagan, giving up all of the men who were currently printing more forged bonds. Peter gave orders and the office descended into controlled chaos.

"What's going on?" Neal asked quietly.

"We're going to raid Hagan's operation. I actually need you for this. The reason I needed Hagan so badly is because he had some documents I need back before we bust in there. When the raid starts, I need you to go in and find them for me and hide them somewhere on you." Peter said all of this without a glance back at Neal, who was standing behind him again.

"How the Hell am I supposed to do that?" Neal hissed.

"You broke into the Fuhrermuseum. You can figure this out. But if you want to get there before bullets start flying, you might want to get started." Peter palmed a piece of paper into Neal's hand as Neal walked out.

Once Neal was out of the building, he looked at the address. It was all the way on the other side of WD9. He pulled Peter's car keys out of his pocket. Good thing he had the foresight to swipe them out of Peter's pocket.

Neal was fighting his panic nearly the entire drive, but by the time he pulled up in front of the warehouse his panic had morphed into a familiar adrenaline rush. He considered the façade of the building, contemplating how he was going to get inside. After a moment, he decided the direct approach was best. He got out and knocked on the door.

No one opened the door, but thugs descended on him from different corners of the premises. As they began to manhandle him, Neal only had a moment to think "Wow, this was a spectacularly bad idea," before a punch to the face made him see stars. But they did drag him into the building.

The deposited him into a glass cubical in the back of the room. Okay, not exactly easy to move unnoticed, but they didn't seem to be paying much attention to him anyway. He locked the door, just in case. As the men outside worked frantically to remove all evidence from the building, Neal looked for the documents Peter had been worried about. He found them, along with the original bond that had been stolen from a museum in Berlin, inside a pathetically easy to pick safe, then sat back to wait for Peter.

Neal hadn't expected the raid to be a good experience, but it was even worse than he'd feared. The Gestapo exploded through the doors, guns raised and ready, pushing people to the ground, beating them, tearing up equipment. One agent shot a man, the sounded echoing throughout the large warehouse like thunder. Neal didn't want to look. He flinched and squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't want to see what he had brought on these people. He could easily see himself committing the same crimes, had on several occasions. He had been apprehended outside of an actual crime and it had been far less violent.

Finally, the cacophony of violence and chaos died down. All the men, Curtis Hagen included, were rounded into a group and handcuffed. Neal's eyes caught sight of the man who'd been shot behind the crowd of prisoners, still alive. He was wounded in the chest. Neal knew medical treatment wouldn't arrive in time for him, if it arrived at all.

Peter approached Neal, who was still behind the desk where he'd ducked for cover when the SS had arrived. He paused on the other side, then his eyes found where Neal had opened the safe at the beginning of the chaos, before bullets had started flying.

"Is that the original War Bond?"

Neal stood up and brushed himself off, shooting nervous glances at the S.S. and their captives, who were being herded out of the small doorway single file at gunpoint.

"Why yes, yes it is," he replied, thankful his voice held steady.

Peter chuckled and sat on what was once Curtis Hagan's desk, but was now property of the German government. Neal, taking his cue, sat next to him. He shakily pilfered one of the expensive cigars housed there and lit it, took a long drag, then offered it to Peter.

"Cuban?" Peter asked.

"Mm, you should arrest me," Neal remarked.

"I'll let the cigar go, but you are an escaped Zwangzarbeiter,"

Neal glanced at Peter, searching his face for a sign that he was about to be arrested and sent back to reeducation. When he found nothing, he quietly continued puffing on the cigar.

"You know this makes me 3 and 0, don't you?" Peter said.

"Maybe I'm not trying hard enough."


End file.
